


Mind the Gap

by edibleflowers



Series: Switch [3]
Category: Torchwood RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's still a long way to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind the Gap

**Author's Note:**

> The promised sequel to Switch and Own Up. Yes, I know it's been a long time since I promised that there was more coming. The thing is, I sort of had this issue and decided that I really wasn't going to write this fic after all. I've been writing RPS for years and years (since I was about 14, actually; it was my first form of fanfic) and this is the first time I've had moral qualms about it. It took me quite a while to get over myself and get to a point where I was able to pick this up. My eternal thanks to lemniskate67 for basically keeping me sane throughout the writing of this. Please note that this is the final part of this series.
> 
> Originally posted on October 25, 2009, on my Livejournal.

The next time Gareth sees John, nearly a year has gone by. Not since the end of filming have they laid eyes on each other, due to John's usual busy schedule and a truly remarkable set of circumstances; Gareth still recalls how he was packing for Heathrow, en route to Chicago, when he got the call about John's ankle. He'd been unable to suppress the bark of unamused laughter. He's been all right with not seeing John, though. He tells himself that right up until John walks into the back of HMV, fifteen minutes late and larger than life.

John is all huge smile and violence-inducing Ed Hardy shirt. He apologizes to everyone in the vicinity for being late, goes bug-eyed at Eve's baby bump, hugs Gareth like nothing ever happened. Gareth's so all right with that. He'd hoped the intervening months would dry up his infatuation with John, let it blow away into dust; but two minutes in John's presence again and Gareth knows it's never going to happen.

The helicopter ride into Cardiff does wonders for Gareth's ego, at least. John looks vaguely green the whole time, even though he keeps laughing it off; even Eve is taking it better than him, staring out the window and pointing out landmarks. John's between them, a sturdy heat Gareth's carefully not noticing, but when John's hand lands on his knee and squeezes, Gareth's mouth goes dry. They've risen to avoid the disturbed air over a low range of Welsh mountains, and John's other hand is clasping one of Eve's, but Gareth can't think about anything but that touch. _Jesus Christ_ , he scolds himself, _you fucking wanker, get the fuck over it_.

* * *

After they land in Cardiff, posing for pictures in the middle of the place that was blown up last week on television, there's another signing and masses of fans, many of whom (like those in London) are still freshly stunned over the events of the series. A couple of them are crying, and Gareth genuinely feels bad for them. He has a feeling it's going to be worse when John goes to San Diego next week with Russell and Julie, and for the first time he's really glad he won't be there when it hits.

Done with the signing, they're ushered to the back to waiting cars. Gareth's tempted to stop John, to try and talk to him. But John's running late for a meeting and he's apologizing again, distributing hugs and being so charming that when he's gone, everyone's left blinking in his wake. Hurricane Barrowman's moved on.

Eve squeezes Gareth's hand. "You look like you're doing well," she tells him, smiling, as they go down the steps of a loading dock.

He nods. "So do you. Going to name the baby after Ianto?" he asks, just to make her laugh, and she hugs him tight before going off to her own car. It occurs to him that this is probably the last time he'll see her outside of the occasional convention, and it makes his throat tighten a little. He thought Torchwood was over for him last fall, but really, it just keeps ending.

* * *

The mobile rings a few days later and Gareth picks it up without thinking to check the caller ID. "Yeah?" he asks, distracted by choosing bananas.

"Gaz!" cries the voice of John Barrowman, and Gareth shuts his eyes hard for a moment. He pastes on a false smile, though, as he adds the bananas to his basket.

"Jinny Baza," he chuckles. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Nothing," John says. "I just thought it'd been way too fucking long."

 _You're not wrong_ , Gareth thinks, but doesn't say. "It has," he replies. "I was starting to feel kind of insulted."

There's a moment of silence; Gareth gives himself a mental kick. Then John, too bright, comes back with, "You missed me, Gaz, don't try to deny it!" and Gareth's guts relax.

"You only wish!"

The conversation lasts while Gareth finishes up in Sainsbury's, everything light and breezy. John doesn't mention Scott, Gareth notices sort of idly; then again, he's not inquiring after him either. There's a story about CJ's latest escapades (apparently he's completely destroyed his favorite ball for playing catch, but refuses to accept any substitutes) and John babbles about La Cage and the shoes he's getting custom-made, the dresses and wigs they're designing. Gareth lets him ramble, glad to just listen to him. He's seen the pictures from the photoshoot outside the Chocolate Factory. John's disturbingly hot in a skimpy white dress.

"So tell me what you're up to," John says at last. Gareth's in his car, already halfway home, the music turned down so he can hear John. "Projects, girlfriends, what's going on?"

"Not a lot in the pipe right now. I've done a bunch of auditions," Gareth replies, the phone tucked in the crook of shoulder and neck as he takes a turn. "Going to Dragon*Con, though, that should be fun. Marsters'll be there again."

"Give him a kiss for me!" John laughs, and in the background Gareth hears one of the dogs yapping. One of the spaniels, maybe; Gareth can't remember which is which.

"Be glad to," Gareth chuckles. "And before you ask, yes, we'll get video for you."

"Good boy." He can hear John's grin. "What else is going on with you? Seeing anyone?"

Gareth takes a deep breath. "I was," he says. "Didn't work out, though. It was about three months, I'm on my own again now."

"Yeah? I'm sorry to hear it." John's voice is sympathetic. "What was her name?"

"Dafydd," Gareth says quickly.

There's a long moment of silence. It goes on, twisting Gareth's stomach into knots and then making him start to wonder if he's been disconnected, until finally, John repeats, "Dafydd?"

"Yeah." Gareth swallows. "Nice guy, but a bit on the clingy side. Wanted to move in after a month. It was--"

"Gareth, what the hell?" John cuts in. "I thought you--" He stops abruptly. Gareth takes the moment to pull into the driveway and cut the engine.

"It wasn't a one-time thing," Gareth says softly. "I wasn't sure at first, but I know it now." John's suspiciously quiet on the other end, and he swallows. "You still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here. I'm just sort of. Well, really surprised," John says, forcing a laugh.

Shaking his head, Gareth gets out of the car and goes to the back to get his groceries. "I don't see why. You of all people," he says, with a wry smile. It's been a year and more since that day, The Incident that will be forever marked in Gareth's mind in flaming letters a hundred feet tall.

"Yeah, but." John's voice goes softer as he goes on. "I thought it was just me."

"Hence the experimenting," Gareth says dryly. He gets the bags together and bumps the car door shut with his hip. "Look, mate, I've got to go, I have all this food to put away. Can I give you a call later?"

John murmurs a quiet agreement, and Gareth hangs up and slides his mobile into his pocket. He finds he's smiling as he joggles the keys to unlock the front door. It's been a hell of a long time since he was able to surprise John. A little over a year, in fact.

* * *

He doesn't see John again until well into the _La Cage_ run. He's decided to go in under the radar, as much as possible, so he shaves and gels his hair back, calls Gavin for a ticket but tells him not to let John know he'll be there. Gavin laughs and agrees, and Gareth grins to picture the look on John's face when he sees him.

Gareth's been in London a lot anyway, shooting the web series, a guest shot on The Bill, things like that, and really it's just kind of strange that he _hasn't_ gone yet. He's seen the billboards, the posters, John in the red spangly frock and blonde wig and heels: Barrowman is everywhere lately, impossible to avoid.

He is, of course, brilliant as Albin. Gareth's glanced at reviews, but he didn't need those to know that John would be amazing. The whole production is good, making the most of a silly, frothy, fun show; John, though, is the star. From his seat in the upper level, Gareth finds himself grinning, so glad John got the opportunity to do this.

It's no trouble afterwards to get himself let in backstage; Gavin told him who to talk to, and in moments he's being led downstairs into a cramped basement, every bit of space taken up with frilly costumes and bits of feather. John's dressing-room door is closed; Gareth knocks and is rewarded with a shout of, "Give me five goddamn minutes!"

"No rush," he shouts back, "in your own time, I'm not in a hurry or anything."

Seconds later, the door pops open, and John's there, grinning and dragging him into the tiny room. He's still on a high from the performance and Gareth hugs him happily, glad to see John so delighted. Zaza's dresses hang from a rack that takes up most of the space in the room; John's half-done removing his stage makeup, wrapped in a robe, and he laughs as he pushes Gareth into the only other available seat, a deep old overstuffed armchair. As Gareth sits and watches John clean his face, he realizes with a pang that this is the first time he and John have been alone together in -- well, in over a year's time.

Babbling, John demands to know what Gareth thought of the show but promptly interrupts him with a list of the things he fucked up, and Gareth can't help but laugh as John goes down the list. It's so typical of him to focus on the mess-ups, the things he wants to prevent from happening tomorrow. "You were amazing," he finally says, and John grins at him in the mirror.

"Really?"

"Honestly." Gareth leans over and squeezes John's shoulder. "I had no idea. It's the most incredible transformation, you're up there on stage and you just -- you blew me away."

John waggles his eyebrows, laughing. He turns in his makeup chair to give Gareth a softer smile, though, catching Gareth's hand before he can pull it away, pressing it in both of his. "Thank you, Gaz, I really can't tell you how much that means to me."

Gareth's tempted, oh so tempted to reel John in, to feel him up close again, to feel his kiss for the first time in far too long. But he restrains himself, sitting back instead. "You all right to go out and maybe get a drink or something after this?"

John's face falls, and he goes back to wiping the last bits of makeup off. "I wish," he says. "I have a radio thing tomorrow, and then an interview for the Children in Need thing. Eighty Days Around the World, remember that?" Gareth nods, carefully hiding his disappointment. "Tell you what, though," John adds, getting up to grab a pair of jeans from the counter, "I'm free on Sunday."

"Sunday?" Gareth repeats, starting to smile. "The whole day? You're joking, right, a whole day of John Barrowman all to myself?"

"Fuck you," John grins, pulling on the denims. He buttons them and drops the robe on Gareth.

"Sounds good," Gareth chuckles, balling the robe up and tossing it back at John, trying not to stare at all the bare skin. He pushes up out of the chair, hands in his pockets. "I'm going to get out of here before your rabid groupies descend on you."

"I'll call," John says, muffled through the shirt he's pulling on. Once he's done, he grabs Gareth by the neck and hauls him in for a hug, squeezing him tight. Gareth closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of John, redolent with the sweat of a hard night's work, pungent stage makeup, lighter notes of feminine cosmetics. It dizzies him for a moment; he has to make himself let go and step back.

"See you later," he says, nodding, and John smiles in return before Gareth walks out the door.

* * *

John texts him on Friday afternoon: "Come 2 the flat 4 lunch. Promise 2 b good." Gareth doesn't see the message until later that evening, after he's finished his last scene on The Bill; it makes him grin, though, when he finally does check his mobile. It's been too fucking long since things were easy and light between them. Even though he's pretty sure he'll never get past this insane desire for John, he can put that aside now, push it down. Smiling, he texts a reply to confirm.

* * *

Gareth's surprised to find himself a little nervous when the cab pulls up at John's house on Sunday, but he swallows it down as he pays the fare. It's not any different from when he was in John's dressing room last week; besides, the dogs will certainly be there, and Scott more than likely as well (once again Gareth idly wonders if John ever told Scott about their indiscretion); he's fretting for no reason at all.

John's on the phone when he answers the door, mobile cradled to his shoulder; he grimaces and gestures evocatively at the phone as he lets Gareth in, and Gareth smiles and waves it off. The dogs rush up like a miniature tidal wave, so he bends his attention to them, hunching down to give scritches, getting his hands and wrists licked by eager canine tongues. Then John grabs a ball and tosses it down the hall, and all three skitter madly after it, CJ in the lead.

It's evident John's talking to Gavin, the rapid-fire discussion of days and dates picking up again as John leads Gareth into the kitchen. A laptop is open on the table; John spins it toward himself and sits down before it, pointing Gareth toward the refrigerator. Gareth pulls out a bottle of water and leans on the fridge, listening to the one-sided conversation and glancing around the kitchen. He's never actually been in John's London place before. It's far from immaculate; while the design is fantastic, as should only be expected of the home of an architect, there's bread and half a carton of eggs left out on the counter, evidence of a hasty breakfast still not cleaned up. It's lived in.

Finally, John groans and ends the call. He aborts a gesture of throwing the mobile at the wall, putting it down instead and leaning his head on one hand, elbow propped on the table. "Sorry about that," he says.

Gareth waves it off. "Business before pleasure, I know. Scott around?" He's pleased that it comes out lightly, indifferently.

John shakes his head. "Not right now," he replies, in an ambiguous tone. "So what can I get you? I thought I might fry up some burgers, have a nice American lunch."

"Sounds good," Gareth agrees. He brings his water over to the table and sits down next to John. _Don't be awkward_ , he tells himself. It's been his mantra since he woke up this morning. Despite himself, though, he finds the fingers of one hand plucking at the leather cuff wrapped around the opposite wrist. "The whole thing? Chips and all?"

"I'm capable of deep-frying potatoes," John says, straight-faced, and Gareth bursts out laughing. "Fine! Just for that, you're on fryer duty." He points at Gareth, who holds his hands up in surrender.

The small deep-fryer is easy to work; it takes longer to wash and chop up the potatoes, but the task goes quickly with John nearby mixing up ground beef and both of them laughing about light subjects. John brings up the Viagra incident and Gareth nearly slices his finger wide open, laughing so hard he stops paying attention to what he's doing. When the chips are in the fryer and John's got the burgers sizzling in a pan, Gareth leans on the counter to watch him. John's casual as ever in a polo shirt and jeans, but there's something about him, something different. It's not that he's more fit, though that's certainly part of it; he was always in good shape while they filmed Torchwood, but after weeks of dancing in high heels, he's lost even the slight pudginess around his middle. It's something else, though, and Gareth can't put his finger on what.

As they finish their respective tasks, the dogs come pelting back into the kitchen, drawn by the smells of food. John tosses them little bits of cooked meat, and Gareth scolds him for it; he doesn't like giving animals "people food", as his auntie used to call it when she fed her cat from the table. Darcey and Maynard don't beg. But CJ and Harris and Charlie aren't bad, either; once they get little morsels, they're off again. "Into more mischief," John chuckles. "Last time Scott was gone for a week, he came back to find half his dress shoes chewed up."

"Serve him right for taking off on them," Gareth chuckles. John's quiet, then, serving up the burgers, adding cheese and putting them on buns; _oh_ , Gareth thinks. He finishes what he's doing with the chips first, though, setting them on paper towels to soak out the worst of the grease.

"Let's eat outside," John suggests brightly. "It's not bad out, we should take advantage of the weather while we can."

"It's October," Gareth argues, but John won't be talked out of it. And it is an unusually warm day for October, so they take their plates and drinks into the back garden, accompanied by the dogs.

They eat in comfortable silence for a little while; John douses his chips liberally in ketchup, while Gareth sticks to his preferred vinegar. Most of the way through his burger, John reaches for a napkin and dabs his mouth, glancing at Gareth with a raised eyebrow.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Shoot," Gareth replies, finishing a mouthful of burger.

"How serious were you with this guy, Dafydd?"

Gareth's been wondering if John would ask about this; he shrugs in response. "I dunno. Not really, I guess. Dating. Saw each other two, three times a week. Kept it under the radar," he adds, with a quirk of a smile. "He wasn't out, either."

"How'd you meet?" John's voice is innocent curiosity, and Gareth steals a look at him to try and see what he's getting at. John's eyes reveal nothing.

Gareth shrugs. "A gig, actually. He saw us play at TJ's, chatted me up about the music for a while. Didn't realize he was coming on to me until he asked my number, then it hit me he didn't actually know who I was. Which was kind of sweet, you know?"

John laughs, a sympathetic sound. "Yeah, I do."

"Yeah. So." Gareth eats the last bite of burger and sits back, reaching for his water for something to occupy his hands. "It was, it was nice at first, the sex was good." He carefully doesn't look at John now. "But it wasn't great, there wasn't that connection, you know? And then he started talking about moving in, and I was sitting there going, Jesus, mate, I hardly know you yet. So that was that." He shrugs once more, turning the bottle in his hands.

"Sorry," John says, quiet, sounding sincere. Gareth looks up at him now, smiling a little.

"No worries," he says. "It's been a few months, it wasn't, you know, the great love of the ages."

John doesn't respond at first. His hands are curled in his lap, the napkin twisting in his fingers. CJ gets up from where he's been lying at John's feet and barks, clearly hoping to get the last bite of the burger. John snorts and picks the meat out, tosses it up; CJ leaps up and snatches it out of the air in one bite.

"Not like me and Scott, right?" he says finally, and Gareth hears the sharpness, the bitter edge to his words. He blinks and sits up.

"I didn't mean..." Confused, he warily watches John. "What's going on?"

John sucks in a breath and looks at Gareth. For once, there's no mask, no false smile, nothing hiding the hurt and emptiness in John's eyes. The shock of it makes Gareth's breath catch. "We're on a break, I guess," John says, his voice low and quiet. "I say 'I guess' because when he got his bag together, I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he said he didn't know. And I haven't heard from him since then."

"When was this?" Gareth feels anger start to rise. He's never thought ill of Scott before; now it's all he can think.

"A couple of weeks ago," John says. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, just don't. I've already said it, or thought it, or thought worse."

Gareth's jaw snaps on the string of insults he was ready to hurl on Scott's name. "Jesus," he says instead.

"Yeah." John laughs bleakly. CJ comes running back, barks until John lifts him into his lap, his fingers automatically working the fur behind the dog's ears. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

"It sounds pretty sudden," Gareth says, remembering suddenly an afternoon in John's kitchen in Sulley, sitting at stools at the kitchen bar, John saying how they'd been going through a rough patch. "Wait," he says, as it catches up to him, as John watches him with eyes that seem to be following every thought process. "Wait, this has been going on since last _year_?"

"Since before." John shrugs absently, his eyes lowering to focus on the dog in his lap. CJ, blissfully ignorant, leans into the scratching fingers. "But he gets... he loses patience a lot faster these days. And then he got pissy about me doing La Cage, even though my working schedule's never bothered him before."

"Shit, John," Gareth mutters. He feels dumbstruck. If there was one thing in his life that ever seemed rock-solid, it was John and Scott.

"I talked to his parents," John says, quiet now. "I guess he's all right, he'll, you know, he'll call when he's ready to."

Gareth wipes his mouth with his hand. "Fuck, I'm sorry, John."

John snorts briefly and looks up at him again. "You know what? I'm kind of not. I know that sounds pretty fucking terrible, yeah? But at least -- at least it's not all simmering under the surface now. It pisses me off that he did this, but now it's out in the open."

"So to speak," Gareth mutters, and to his surprise, John laughs.

"Yeah. So to speak. You want a beer?"

* * *

Halfway into the second bottle, Gareth starts to think that getting drunk with John probably wasn't the best idea. They've moved back inside, since the wind was starting to kick up; now, both of them sprawled on the sofa in the media room, Gareth's noticing John way too much. His judgment is always off when he drinks; worse, he feels like all his senses have sharpened, focused solely on John.

In the mood to show off, John's put on a DVD of old home movies that his brother put together and apparently sent to the entire family for use as blackmail material. Only John, Gareth thinks, would find grainy Super-8 footage of himself dancing in a frock at age fifteen the funniest thing ever. "I should put this on the DVD!" John laughs. "Proof that I haven't changed in thirty years!"

"Proof you never had any shame," Gareth replies, and John gives him a growl, eyes flashing. The sound seems to go straight through Gareth to center on his cock, and he shifts a little, glad John's gaze is already back on the television screen.

"Halloween," John says, grinning and leaning his head on Gareth's shoulder. John's dressed up like the stereotypical American southern hick, plaid shirt, blue denims, barefoot, with a straw hat and a piece of hay in his teeth; the look's completed with huge greasepaint freckles and red circles of color on his cheeks. There's a girl with him, his best friend -- John had told Gareth her name, but two minutes later and Gareth's already forgotten -- dressed correspondingly. They're standing on the front porch of the Barrowman home in Illinois, carved pumpkins in the window, everything so American. Gareth's surprised at the jealousy he feels.

"Looks like it was nice," he says, quieter than he meant to, and covers up by drinking the rest of his beer. He can feel John looking at him, though. "Ready for another?" he asks, pushing up from the couch.

"Not yet, but bring one anyway," John says. Gareth goes into the kitchen and leans on the fridge for a few moments, collecting himself. He's such a total arse. He just wants to enjoy this day, not get all weepy for the family life he didn't have. Giving himself a quick slap, he fetches two more bottles and uncaps them before going back into the media room.

John's looking at him curiously, but accepts the fresh bottle without saying anything, setting it down next to the one he's nearly done with. When Gareth's sat down, though, John hooks an arm around Gareth's shoulders and reels him in. Gareth sags against John with a quiet sigh, unresisting.

The footage plays silently. School dances, prom night. The first footsteps of John's acting career, a badly-filmed school production of _Anything Goes_ \-- this with sound, the technology having upgraded to early videocamera footage. Gareth listens to John sing Cole Porter's songs of love and longing, and closes his eyes, drinking his beer without looking at the screen.

* * *

He wakes in darkness, confused. The sound of a house is strange and silent and loud around him all at once; he's used to the near-silence of his flat, and he can hear the hum of electricity, traffic nearby. Sitting up, he remembers all at once: John's house. He'd had a fourth beer and then begun to doze; John must have put him to bed on the couch where they were watching old home movies. There's a blanket over him, and Gareth peels it back; he has to piss in the worst way.

Enough moonlight slants through the windows that he can find his way to the downstairs loo. He shields his eyes against the light before turning it on, leaves the door open. His head's just barely at the point of starting to hurt. The hangover's hovering, waiting to descend, and he closes his eyes while he pisses. Somehow he's not surprised to hear the clicking of doggy claws on hardwood; as he finishes, he glances and sees that Charlie's come to investigate. "Hey, boy," he murmurs, and hears the raspy dryness of his throat. "Fuck," he mutters. Buttons up, washes his hands, finds paracetamol in the medicine cabinet, then heads for the kitchen. Charlie follows him, snuffling curiously at his ankles. He doesn't have his shoes on. John must have taken them off.

The kitchen is dark, too, but there's a nightlight over the sink that lets him see his way to the fridge. He takes out a bottle of water, pops the paracetemol in his mouth, then leans against the closed refrigerator door to drink most of the water at once.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," John says, and Gareth nearly sprays half the contents of his mouth across the kitchen. Managing somehow to swallow, he blinks in the sudden light that illuminates the kitchen; John's standing at the entranceway, a robe draped over a t-shirt and pajama pants.

"Sorry," Gareth says automatically. "Didn't mean to wake you."

John shrugs. "Couldn't sleep," he says. "You mind if I--?" He gestures at the refrigerator, and Gareth steps aside hastily.

"Yeah, no problem, I just needed something to--"

Instead of approaching the fridge, John walks up to him, effectively cutting off both Gareth's sentence and his ability to remember his own name. He places his hands on Gareth's hips and draws him in. John's mouth is as warm as Gareth remembers it, the kiss softer. At the end of it, Gareth blinks dazedly at John. It's about all he can do.

"That's what I wanted to do," John murmurs. "That's why I couldn't sleep." He still tastes faintly of beer, though the mint of his toothpaste is sharper. Gareth finds his eyes returning to John's full lips, the lower one so smooth, openly lickable, where the finely drawn bow of John's upper lip is nothing short of sinful.

"Come upstairs," John whispers. Gareth nods blindly.

* * *

John drops his dressing gown on a chair, just inside the bedroom; then he turns to Gareth, his smile soft. "Did you want to borrow some pajamas?" he offers.

"Hadn't thought about it," Gareth says quietly. "I usually sleep in -- well, my pants or nothing."

"Up to you," John says, but his eyes flash for a moment and Gareth's mouth goes dry. While John goes to the bed, pulling back the rumpled covers to neaten them up, Gareth tugs his shirt over his head, then unbuckles his belt and shucks out of his jeans, toes out of his socks, leaving only his boxer-briefs to protect his modesty.

It's not like he hasn't been half-naked in front of John before. He's even flashed his bits, and God knows he's seen John's more times than he can readily count. But that was all different, in fun or in preparation for filming. Charlie's followed them upstairs to join the others in a heap on a big plush dog bed; Gareth's in John's bedroom (John and Scott's bedroom, still). This isn't just John, this is John and everything that goes with him, and in the intimate darkness of this moment, there's nothing keeping them apart. Nothing, that is, but consequences and memories, potentials, possibilities.

"Come here," John murmurs. Gareth swallows and smiles, crosses the big room to where John stands by the bed. John takes Gareth's hands and draws them around his waist. "We don't have to do anything," he says, "you know that, right? We can just sleep."

Gareth nods, leans his head forward just a little to rest his forehead against John's. John smiles, too, closing his eyes. "I know," Gareth says softly. He's slipped his arms around John's waist; they're close, bodies almost but not quite touching, and he can feel John trembling just the slightest bit in his arms. It surprises and oddly comforts him. He presses a kiss to John's cheek, in the hollow just before his ear. "Let's lay down," he whispers, and this time he feels the tremor. It passes through John and into him, slipping under his skin.

John steps backward, closing the brief distance between himself and the bed, and sits down, pulling away from Gareth only so that he can slide under the sheets. Gareth follows, hardly daring to breathe as he settles, pulling the comforter up around both of them. The strangest part of all of it is how natural it all feels; like this is where he should be, where he's meant to be. He shakes that thought off (romanticizing the whole thing far too much, he tells himself) and then inhales when John's hand slides across his belly, with the bulk of John's body a warm weight against Gareth's side.

It's been so long since he just _slept_ in the same bed with someone. He'd forgotten how good it could be, how comforting to have someone there with him. He turns his head and smiles up close at John.

"Don't know about you," John says, "but I'm not quite getting the whole romantic seduction vibe here."

Gareth laughs in spite of himself. He nods, though, bringing one arm up to cover John's where it's looped over his chest. "Let's just get some sleep," he says.

John nods, his eyes warm and smiling in the darkness, and he tips in to kiss Gareth softly. Gareth closes his eyes, leaning up into the kiss. There's a sweetness to it, a hint of something more urgent; if he wasn't so tired, he'd be tempted to pursue that. No, that's a lie: he is tempted, even as exhausted as he is, but now's not the time. He lets the kiss end with a little sigh and turns himself so he rests on his side, curled back into John's arms. He feels John's lips, soft in his hair, and just like that he's asleep.

* * *

He wakes to sunshine against his eyelids and an unfamiliar weight on his back. Pushing up from the bed, Gareth realizes two things at once: that he's rolled onto his stomach in the night, and that in sleep, John clings like a limpet. His head doesn't hurt too badly, for which he's grateful as he shifts to roll to his back.

He'd like to go back to sleep. It's warm, comfortable, in John's bed, with John's arm draped over him. Though he closes his eyes and tries to, he can't seem to find that drifting-off headspace again. John makes a sleepy sound, mutters something incomprehensible, and opens his eyes.

"Hi," he says, croaky.

"Hi," replies Gareth, feeling inane but smiling.

"Time is it?" John asks. Gareth cranes his neck to look at the digital clock on the bedside table.

"After eleven," he says. "You need to be up by a specific time?"

"Before I have to get to the theater," John mumbles against Gareth's shoulder.

Gareth sighs, not liking the reminder that all too soon this interlude will be over. "I should get going," he says. John makes an unhappy sound and his arm tightens around Gareth.

"Don't," he mutters.

"Don't want to," Gareth finds himself whispering.

John pulls himself up, levering himself on an elbow until he's propped partially over Gareth. He's still blinking sleepily, and Gareth doesn't fight the sudden urge to run his fingers through the nest of John's crazed hair, all sticking up one side and flat on the other. John's soft smile goes through Gareth like a jolt of electricity. "So don't," John says, simply, and leans in for a kiss.

Despite himself, Gareth meets it. He wants this; he's wanted it for longer than he can easily recall. To spend a lazy morning in bed with John sounds like nothing short of paradise. The kiss stays easy, though, gentle press of John's mouth on his, and then John draws back.

"Bad idea," he says, smiling ruefully. "I know."

Gareth lets out a cautious breath. "If you ask me, it seems like the best idea in the world right now." He meets John's smile, lets his head drop back; with a groan, John pushes himself up and flops over on his back.

"Fuck!" John states, unequivocally, staring up at the ceiling. "This is so fucked."

Nodding, Gareth swings his legs off the bed and sits up, rubbing his face. "Not how I envisioned it," he comments.

"Yeah?" Behind him, he hears John moving, getting out of bed and shuffling toward the loo. "You'll have to tell me about it," he calls, before any further sound is lost to the noise of John pissing. Gareth scratches himself idly and gets to his feet. Locating his clothes -- in a heap on one of the chairs by the door -- he sits down there and starts to dress.

John emerges from the bathroom, still looking rumpled but a bit more awake. "I was kind of hoping you'd still be in bed," he says, his smile just slightly wistful. "You want to get breakfast?"

While the idea appeals, Gareth knows there's still a conversation to be had here, and he'd rather it not be held where anyone can overhear it. "Why don't I make something?" he suggests. "You've got food, yeah?"

John's smile grows. "Careful," he chuckles. "Make offers like that and I might keep you."

* * *

Gareth doesn't do a lot of cooking for himself lately, but he still enjoys it, in no small part because an omelette is easy and quick to make and John genuinely appreciates it. He fries bacon and sausages, too; it might not be very healthy, but it's good, and they eat without needing to talk much between bites. The sun is warm through the wide kitchen windows; everything's quite domestic, with the dogs sprawled around them in little furry heaps and John's foot idly pressing against Gareth's.

John waits until they're both done eating, until he's tossed the last bit of his sausage down for Harris to snatch up before CJ can get it. "So," he says, his voice wry, "I guess, uh. I guess this is where I lay it all out."

Gareth would be taking a sip of coffee right then. He barely manages to swallow it, but he gives John a glare as his throat works. John breaks out laughing, head tipping back as he lets himself indulge in the moment of pure delight.

"Jesus," he snickers, getting some self-control back. "The one time I'm not aware of what I'm saying. Fuck." He rubs his face, smiling, and then shakes his head. "All right, let me try that again. You deserve the truth, and I, I'm an asshole who wants you too badly to lie to you." While Gareth's still processing that, John sits up in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. "I do, Gaz, I really--. There's nothing more I'd like to do right now than say fuck the universe and take you back to bed."

Gareth nods. His cheeks are inexplicably heating up; he cups his hands around his coffee. "But," he prompts.

"But it's just not simple. And my fucking conscience won't let it lie." John's face goes shuttered for a moment; then he looks up at Gareth again. "I have to sort things out with Scott before I can do anything else. If nothing else, out of respect for our history--"

"Of course," Gareth says, maybe a little too readily. He nods, looking down into his half-empty mug. "No, it's all right, I understand."

"It's because I want to do this right," John says softly. "You know? If, if there's a chance for us."

Gareth nods again. "I know," he says. His mouth quirks a little; the liquid in the mug ripples a little. It's tempting to just get up and walk away now, but aside from the fact that he doesn't know where his shoes are, he doesn't want to act like a kid in front of John. "It's not as if," he starts, sucks in a breath, tries again. "It's not as if I really thought that--. You know."

"What?" John sounds concerned; Gareth doesn't want to look up at him. "You didn't really think what?"

"That there could ever be anything," Gareth says. "Between us. I know that's not how it works."

John's silent for a moment, but Gareth keeps his gaze lowered. At last he says, "How do you know?"

Gareth puts the cup down in favor of running his hands through his hair. "Because," he says. "Because I don't want to be the one coming between you and Scott, the -- the other man. Because I've had this thing for you for years and it's just not going to go away, I know, I'm OK with that."

"Jesus, Gareth," John breathes. Gareth finally looks up. John looks stunned, as if he's just been slapped. "Fuck. You -- what, you think I don't want you, too? Just as much if not more?"

Gareth swallows. "Well," he says. "I didn't exactly know what to think, did I?"

John lets out a weak laugh. "And here I thought me dragging you into my bed last night might've convinced you there." He shakes his head in amusement, then reaches across the table, fingers curling around Gareth's wrist until Gareth lets John take his hand. "I do want you," he says. "Things with Scott started getting weird a while before I even met you, Gaz. And I don't know where I am with him right now. That's why I need, I'm asking for a little time. Because I want to pursue this, with you, and I want things to be clear and open when I do. All right?"

Feeling rather as if he's been bashed around the head with a blunt object, Gareth nods slowly. His fingers squeeze at John's. "All right," he agrees. He wonders if he woke up in an alternate universe. But he smiles at John, nods, and says "all right" again.

* * *

He goes back to Cardiff the same day. He has a convention to get ready for, and then another the week after that, and all sorts of work and Blue Gillespie stuff to keep him occupied. He's never been so grateful to have work to lose himself in. It's not that he doesn't want to think about John; it's that he's afraid to. Hope can be the worst thing to have.

A week goes by and he doesn't hear from John. He's never been a fan of waiting, but now the time passing is the worst sort of torment. Another week and when he looks at his planner and sees the date, he wonders if he was imagining the whole thing. It seems plausible.

He's just getting back in from Florida, from the convention in Orlando, when his mobile goes off. Expecting it to be his agent, he drops his suitcase by the door and answers it, kneeling to greet the dogs who are enthusiastically welcoming him home.

"Yeah?"

"Gareth," says an English voice, "it's Gavin Barker."

Gareth blinks as he stands. "Gavin, hi," he says, confused. He heads for the kitchen, always his first stop when he gets in, to grab some water and make sure the dogs have food. "What's up?"

"I'm just calling to let you know, to give you a heads' up," Gavin says. "There's going to be a big media push next week about John and Scott. John asked me to warn you."

 _A big media push_ , Gareth repeats in his head, carefully ignoring the dread starting to fill the pit of his stomach. "What kind of -- what for?" he asks. _It can't be getting married_ , he thinks to himself, already trying to analyze it. _Maybe they're finally getting to adopt_ \--

"They're dissolving the partnership," Gavin says, and for a moment Gareth doesn't even understand it, the words so formal. "It's over."

"Over," Gareth echoes. "Oh. Oh, shit, I'm -- I'm sorry, tell them, will you? I'm really sorry."

Gavin makes a sound as if he's smiling. "I will," he says. "But John wanted me to let you know so you could avoid the papers if you wanted. I doubt anyone will call you, but just in case."

"If they do, I'll tell them to shove off," Gareth says feelingly, and Gavin laughs.

"Thanks," he says. "All right, I've got more calls to make, so I'll let you go."

Gareth acknowledges it with something inane, forces himself not to tell Gavin to tell John he said 'hi', and rings off. He sinks down against the fridge door until his ass meets the floor. Darcey comes over to him and sticks her nose under his arm; with a weak smile, he puts his arm around her for a hug. "Fuck," he mutters. He doesn't even know what to make of this.

One thing seems clear, though. Even if John and Scott are through, the fact that John delegated the calls to Gavin must mean that he didn't want to tell Gareth personally. Which must mean he doesn't want to talk to Gareth.

He looks at the mobile still in his hand. He could call John right now; the phone line does go both ways, after all. But he closes his hand around it and puts it down instead, rubbing his face with his hand. He's not glad about the breakup, though he hopes it's a good resolution for John and Scott, that it'll be what they both need. He hates himself for being hopeful, still.

* * *

The one relief is that starting the next morning, he has the perfect distraction in the form of rehearsals for _Cinderella_. It's been so long since he's been on stage that it's a sheer pleasure to throw himself into the first readthroughs, thoroughly enjoying the lighthearted and hilarious script. He has meetings and fittings, he finds a hotel in Preston that'll let him have the dogs there, and in between he tries not to think about John.

Which isn't easy, either, as time goes on. Though he tries to force himself not to think about the radio silence, the media blitz over the shock of John's separation from Scott makes it pretty much impossible to avoid. Gareth does get the odd phone call here and there from a reporter or a radio DJ, curious to see if he has any inside info; but Gareth repeats the lie that he was as surprised as anyone else. He even says it to Eve when she calls, and Kai, too. Maybe if he says it enough, he thinks, he might start to believe it.

He moves up to Preston two weeks before the panto starts. Even further from home, sleeping in a strange bed with only the dogs for company, Gareth works hard not to think about the warm bedroom in John's London home and how natural it felt to be there, how sound his sleep was. He's grateful when the company moves into full rehearsals, because they leave him drained and usually too exhausted to do more than have a quick wank before bed.

He gives up pretending not to count days, though. Nearly a month since Gavin called to warn him. Close to six weeks since the last time he saw or spoke to John. He's just hoping by now that he'll get over it at some point.

* * *

The first performance is what all first performances usually are: frenzied and chaotic, not completely gelled but still somehow coming together at all the places where it was falling apart in dress rehearsal the night before. Gareth stands with the rest of the cast, proud to be there alongside them all, and bows once, then again, and again, grinning at the young faces he can see in the audience. This is bloody brilliant; he's so glad he did this.

Backstage, he falls into the chair in his miniscule dressing room and stares at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, still buzzing with post-performance energy. He wants to bounce; he wants to get out and dance or sing, scream himself hoarse. As he starts peeling his costume off, there's a knock on the door and he gulps water from a glass before shouting, "Give me five minutes!"

"No rush," says a voice on the other side. It's a voice he knows, an American-accented voice he hasn't heard in almost two months. Gareth nearly falls out of his chair in his rush to get to the door.

John stands there on the other side of it, hands in jeans pockets, his smile unabashed and proud. "Can I come in?"

"You bastard," Gareth laughs, grabbing John's shoulder and pulling him into the room. It's only after he's got the door closed that he remembers he's half-dressed, the jacket and waistcoat from his costume draped on his chair, the shirt untucked.

"I can wait while you finish changing," John suggests, an eyebrow raised.

"Fuck that," Gareth says, and drags John in for a kiss. He's still sweaty, and he needs to clean his face, but John doesn't seem to mind. After a moment, John's hands come up to cradle Gareth's face, and Gareth hears the little mewl in his own voice as he tightens his arms around John. His heart is pounding at what feels like five times the normal rate.

John finally pulls back, but only to brush a gentle kiss to Gareth's lips. He smiles, looking almost -- if it was possible for John Barrowman to be -- embarrassed. "Hi," he says.

"You're here," Gareth says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

John shrugs. "I'm here."

"For how long?" Gareth swallows, his gaze somewhere around John's lips.

"For as long as you'll have me," John says, and Gareth's breath catches before he surges in for another kiss. Backing John up to the dressing room wall, he grins.

"Good," he says, and loses himself in John's mouth again, unrepentant, exultant.


End file.
